


The Streets Aren't For Dreaming Now

by DarchangelSkye



Category: Canadian Idol RPF, Canadian Music RPF, Music RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Guitars, Inspired by Music, Late at Night, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Wordcount: 500-1.000, Written in 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-08
Updated: 2010-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarchangelSkye/pseuds/DarchangelSkye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an unspoken rule from the Idol powers-that-be, yet one expected to be followed to the letter: you are all in direct competition with each other. Nothing is stopping you from being friends and supporting one another, but helping or hindering someone's performance is right out. But Jesse didn't get where he was by following the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Streets Aren't For Dreaming Now

**Author's Note:**

> Title lyric and lyric in story from Tom Waits' "Tom Traubert's Blues (Waltzing Matilda)"

It was an unspoken rule from the Idol powers-that-be, yet one expected to be followed to the letter: you are all in direct competition with each other. Nothing is stopping you from being friends and supporting one another, but helping or hindering someone's performance is right out.

But Jesse didn't get where he was by following the rules.

He had total respect for Orin and Deborah, they weren't the problem. But one-on-one peer sessions, velvet with an edge of steel, brought great results. With the right amount of pushing, and a good ear for what sounded like gold and what was pure tin, the full potential of a voice could be brought to the surface.

Which would explain why Jesse was drilling Mookie like a top sergeant, at this late hour in the hotel room.

"Start over, you're losin' it," he said firmly. "Punch it in."

Mookie looked up from his guitar. The back of his neck ached; he'd lost track of how long they'd been at this. "Are you trying to make me into a machine?" he complained as he reached for a water glass.

"I want to make you a perfectionist," Jesse grinned.

"I already am."

"Runnin' in and pickin' up the bath mat every time I shower doesn't count. C'mon, do it."

Mookie bent his head to the fretboard. "You noticed that, huh?" he asked softly. The realization gave him a warm feeling. He sang the first four lines.

Jesse stepped back. "Again," he ordered, wanting to make sure the young man's voice would register at this distance.

Over and over Mookie sang the snippet, fearful his voice would break any moment. He involuntarily shuddered. _Oh, dammit._

"OK, that's feelin' good," Jesse told him at last. "Nice touch on the catch there, shows the desperation. Try the next verse."

Sighing, Mookie muttered into the guitar strings, "I also organize your music sheets."

_I'm an innocent victim of a blinded alley, and tired of all these soldiers here..._

This was a good choice. After the first round with its crash-and-bash, the young man needed to play something soft and vulnerable- maybe a buzzword the judges tossed around a bit much for Jesse's liking, but it aptly described the quality he knew Mookie was capable of giving off. During the Toronto rounds, with late hours and everything down to the wire, he'd near-cracked, and that wasn't reality-TV drama. That was reality.

Yep, Mookie was a piece of work, all right. Nickname-gimmick aside, he was loaded with personality and the little bit of mystery that intrigued Jesse so. How many times did his heart beat a minute? What side of the bed did he sleep on? Which hand was larger, the left or right? How often had he sat under the stars on hometown nights and allowed himself to dream big? All those subtle details Jesse was compelled to know.

Not that he could say anything just yet. Guys weren't supposed to show their feelings and all that hoo-hah. Besides, it'd bring unnecessary tension to these sessions- kid didn't need _that_ kind of pressure.

Mookie dropped his hands away from the guitar. (Definitely the right, tapered to the ends; even princes didn't have hands like those.) "No more...no more, please."

"What's the matter?" Jesse wanted to know.

"I'm tired," he said evasively. "My neck hurts. I want an aspirin."

Jesse shook his head. "No aspirin," he decided. "You get ulcers, you bleed, you go into terminal acidosis, and you die. Just drink up," he proffered the water again.

"I don't want to." He sounded like an unhappy child. "This hotel's water tastes funny."

Jesse knew Mookie wasn't really talking about being tired, or the water. He also knew the kid would come out with his reason for not going forward if he had a few minutes. He always did. That was one of his most important character traits.

Jesse sat on the mattress across from the young man, patiently folded his hands, and lowered his head to look Mookie in the eye.

Mookie released a papery breath, shook his head, and finally looked up. "Look, Jesse...I'm really grateful, OK? It's just..." he said in a hesitant voice, biting his lip.

This was about as real as he'd get without the cameras around. Jesse knew it'd be a bad idea to rush him or finish his sentence.

"Just nerves. Putting myself out there. Wondering if I'm good enough. I know that sounds stupid, but..."

The older man smirked, but it wasn't mocking or resentful.

"It's not stupid. Anyone who's any good gets nervous, y'never heard that?"

"I'm finding it hard to believe at this point."

The wall wasn't down quite yet. Jesse could accept it for now. He laid a gentle hand on Mookie's hair. "You're gonna be fine, kid. Once Canada sees another side of you...they'll love it." It was the closest he could get to letting his feelings out at the moment, but it was alright.

Mookie smiled falteringly, as if it might hurt his face, and raised an arm so his hand met Jesse's wrist.

"Thanks."


End file.
